


cleansed𐃅𐩑◌

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood, Creepy, Drowning, Gen, Gross, Squirmy - Freeform, Torture, Whump, blood blood blood, graphic blood, unwelcome touch: brush shoulder/face/head during torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: “When’s the last time you took a bath?” a voice with a hint of a smile ventured closer. “Truly cleansed your sins.”There is torture from a creepy baddie. And a lot lot lot of graphic blood. And drowning. Please please read the tags. If questioning, don't read.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 58





	cleansed𐃅𐩑◌

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jameena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts), [SomeRainMustFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRainMustFall/gifts).



> thank you to the wonderful OnlyABookworm for the beta to bounce ideas and help improve this :)

Malcolm felt at his sides — metal. Beneath him — metal. That summed up the grand total of six inches his fingers could move. He was trussed into a frame at the bottom of some sort of…vat? Trough? Galvanized steel and exposed rafters in the ceiling were all his eyes could take in beyond it. Long fluorescents dimly lit the space — some mood lighting.

Leather. Brown straps twined around his wrists, knees, and ankles, across his shoulders and hips. By feel at least — maybe there were more he couldn’t register. Twisting his wrist testing the strength of the hold, he was powerless to get out.

Remember…remember…tea? From the café near the precinct. A short break for what was supposed to be lunch, but rarely was these days. Gil would be waiting for him to get back…

“When’s the last time you took a bath?” a voice with a hint of a smile ventured closer. _Swish — click, swish — click_.

Malcolm’s shoulders stiffened and his spine fused to stone. He’d recognize that skin-crawling tone anywhere. Malcolm lay a fallen colossus guarding the bottom of a bin, his legs spread wide like no feat of ancient engineering could accomplish. He swallowed, his bare chest taking on goosebumps, and provided a steady answer, “I don’t know.”

“Truly cleansed your sins.” _Swish — click, swish — click_.

Armed with…something. Keep him talking, keep him talking. “I don’t know how — “

“Connections.” John’s eyes peeked over the side wall, maybe two arm lengths separating them. 

Just as dark as Malcolm remembered, trying to pull him into the void with his father. John’s smile lit Malcolm’s fear, the tips of his skin curling up under the burn, exposing more of himself than he wanted in another struggle at the ties. 

“You think your father’s the only one with lawyers?” John tsked, scolding Malcolm’s ignorance.

“I thought sacrifice was my final trial?” Malcolm grasped for a discussion point to find enough time to get himself out. What would John want? Vengeance? Hammurabi? A recommendation for a barber?

“But you even messed that up.” John slammed the outside of the chamber, the metal’s clanging resonating into Malcolm’s head. A snarl of frustration morphed back into that twisted smile. “Now we have to start over.”

 _Swish — click, swish — click_ , a switchblade appeared over the wall. “You’re regressing,” Malcolm accused, trying to slow the knife’s travels. “Going backwards toward where you started. What happened to evolving?”

John shook his head. “First we gotta get the darkness out.” John slid the switchblade underneath the jagged scar from his prior work on Malcolm’s skin, trailing dribbles of red in its wake. He retraced and pressed harder, Malcolm biting his lip to avoid crying out. “That’s it, let go.” John’s rough fingers brushed Malcolm’s hair back from his face.

Crimson poured down Malcolm’s side, flowing to the bottom of the container. His brain reminded him of the white-hot pain of the cellar, taunting the edges of his vision with blissful unconsciousness. "What's this — revenge?" Malcolm gritted out. “Some attempt at recapturing dominance?”

"That's where the pain comes in,” John ignored him and sneered, brandishing the blade again. “How ‘bout a matching one? For old time’s sake?” John slashed the other side below Malcolm’s ribs.

Malcolm whimpered, but just kept biting his lip. A coppery tang entered his mouth. Was that what his stomach tasted like? Was John going to find out? Where had his shoes and socks gone? He still had his grey pants. Was he safe? As safe as he could be tied into the bottom of a…tub?

“Let go,” John brushed his collarbone. A wipe against his hair and _swish — click, swish — click_ resumed near his ear.

Corpses, not humans, corpses, not humans — would he become a corpse? “ _Stop!_ ” Malcolm commanded with a confidence gathered to halt any advance.

“Silly Little Malcolm.” John’s warm breath hit his ear. “I’m just giving you a bath.”

Malcolm closed his eyes, blocking out the darkness in the corner of his vision. It didn’t get rid of the fuzz of beard and hair bristling at his neck. “I don’t want it.” His lip trembled, but he kept the waver out of his voice.

“You _need_ it. Relief of letting go all the evil betraying you. Do you feel it? That sweet release?” John rubbed the back of his neck and Malcolm jerked his head to the side, only wanting Gil to touch him there. John pulled him back to center, giving him a healthy dose of _swish — click, swish — click_ at his ear again.

Relief? Malcolm felt two fiery knife wounds slowly oozing out lifeblood he vitally needed filling up the tank instead of his feet. But it wasn’t as bad as last time — he hadn’t been stabbed, wasn’t in danger of dying before he reached the hospital. Probably wouldn’t lose consciousness, if he was lucky. His chest rose as his stomach filled with another deep breath, trying to keep a level head.

 _Click_. John backed away, and Malcolm heard dragging on the concrete. “It’s time for your next treatment to replace what you’ve lost.” 

Running water hit the tub behind him, tinging and pattering off the steel. Was this the spa now? If he had to endure a bath, he hoped it would be warm so he could shake off some of the chill. The liquid moved forward over his chest and splattered down his stomach, more lukewarm than he wanted, but it could have been worse. He could have been in a freezing basement.

A rank scent reached Malcolm’s nose and he opened his eyes.

“ _Ahhh!_ ” He flinched, taking in the torrent pouring over him. His yell echoed off the tub walls.

Not water but —

Blood.

Dark, smelly, vomit-inducing blood.

He gagged, turning his head enough to spill his little stomach contents next to him, mixing in with the deep hue.

“You need to be cleansed,” John repeated, continuing to hose down his chest with blood.

The viscous fluid reached the back of his elbows, wetting them with a taste of more to come. John helped some of the blood along, dipping his hand in and tracing it down the lines of Malcolm’s cheeks.

The smell…the smell — Malcolm gagged again and John shrank away, avoiding any of his sickness.

“W-what are you doing?” Malcolm found his voice in the bottom of the tub.

“Giving you a good wash.”

The hose continued down to his stomach, spilling over his belly button.

“I hear tummy time is supposed to be good.”

"I'm not a child."

"Little Malcolm..." John lingered with the hose over his feet, staring at him head on from the end of the tub. "Let's get you cleaned up so you can fulfill your true purpose.”

“Purpose?”

“Murder, boy,” John reminded as if Malcolm had forgotten his own origin story.

John returned the hose to its station next to Malcolm’s head, the tub filling to the back of his ears. “What is this?” Malcolm asked.

“A feed trough — got it special for an animal like you.” John tapped his forehead.

Like the specifications of exactly what type of chamber he was in was the question. “The bath,” Malcolm clarified.

“Only two more treatments, and I’ll hose you down, your trial finally complete.” John tallied the count into Malcolm’s forehead.

Two? Of what, pig's blood soup? Was he supposed to believe a murderer? Blood sloshed inside of his ears, tickled his instep. Was it still rising? “Time to shut it off?” Malcolm half asked, half pleaded, the fluid lapping at his sides.

“Remember how you made me walk through a river?" John's cold eyes matched his upside down, crinkling with that dreaded smile. "Stops when I say so.”

Blood reached Malcolm’s chin and he tipped his head back to avoid it. Except in that position, his eyes wanted to start to go under. Choices, choices — he lifted his head up from the tub, his neck straining to give him some more distance from the base.

“You might want to save that,” John warned.

Malcolm held out as long as he could, his neck burning, and then he gave in and lowered his head. Blood reached the corner of his eyes, catching like dewdrops at the edge of his lashes, and he popped up again. “John — “

“Bathe,” John repeated.

The tub kept filling, making it to his lips and requiring all the strength he had to go up for more air. On one more bout of his neck giving out, his full head dunked under and snapped up to the top, eyes wild and all of his tendons tight. “J-John? You don’t want to do this!” he begged.

“It’s just a bath.” Malcolm could hear that smile. “You’ll come out fine.”

Malcolm’s head dipped under the blood again. He forced his face back up to the top, the action getting harder and harder as his neck weakened. “John — I can’t breathe.”

“Still talking. Seem to be fine,” John taunted.

Malcolm’s eyes fluttered, blood dripping between his lashes when they opened, a syrupy mess drooling through his vision. He gasped, pulling in some air, but not enough, not nearly —

His head fell again, getting blood into his mouth in the process, a thick irony taste that made him gag and choke, letting more blood into his lungs. A fit of coughs thrust his head back to the top.

“Oh, you need some help staying up?” John asked and slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Malcolm's head, lifting it above the blood line.

Malcolm sputtered, taking in all the air he could. His eyelashes were caked with layers of congealed blood, and he forced them apart in an attempt to keep them from fusing.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” John soothed, ran a thumb over his cheek, and dunked his head under again.

Dip — air — dip — air — baptism in a pool of blood his mind tried to tell him was his. The harder it got to breathe, the more he realized this was going to be it. He’d inhale until he drowned and become one with the fluid.

“Watkins! Show me your hands!” Gil hollered in an undersea yell. Must have been what hell sounded like.

“Well, he asked for it,” John muttered under his breath.

Malcolm fell back under the blood, his head immediately trying to lift himself up enough, but the tub was too full.

“Hwfffp,” Malcolm pleaded barely above the fluid. Took in more and gurgled, “Hpppp.”

For all the times Gil had told Malcolm to call for backup, Gil hadn’t come with any. He had been within blocks while they were still several minutes behind.

John had ducked behind the tub, forcing Gil to creep closer to see what was going on.

Blood — so much blood. Everywhere. Malcolm’s forehead. Malcolm. “ _Malcolm!_ “

“I’m not armed,” John announced, showing his hands above the trough. “So long.”

Gil’s attention split between saving the drowning kid and the prospects of letting John escape or getting prosecuted for an unjustified shot, John took off, unchallenged by Gil’s weapon.

Gil reached in to pull Malcolm out, but quickly found he was restrained. He couldn’t see where he was tied, didn’t know how many places — Malcolm would drown before he got him out. He rocked on his feet, putting his shoulder and legs into the 200 gallon feed trough, slowly getting what felt like 300 pounds of trough, liquid, and man to tip over in a thud, spilling caustic red all over the concrete, marring everything it touched.

“Malcolm! Malcolm!” Gil ran around it, his shoes and pants getting painted dark red. His hands got covered too, feeling for Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm coughed, spewing blood Gil couldn’t tell whether came from within his mouth or off his lips with the force of the air.

“Kid?” All Gil could make out was the whites of his eyes in the sea of crimson.

“K…k,” he got out between more coughs.

Gil used his pocket knife to cut loose his shoulders, hands, waist, and legs. Malcolm plopped out onto the concrete in a pile of limbs. Gil pulled him to the end of the trough so he’d have something to lean against.

Malcolm’s hands swept at his face, trying to clear the mess away, but only smearing it around more. “Help — help,” he pleaded.

Gil shed his sweater and used it to mop Malcolm’s face. He wiped down Malcolm’s chest next, the sweater catching and Malcolm flinching. “What is it?” Gil asked.

“He cut me.”

Some of this blood was his? No way. He wouldn’t be _alive_.

Malcolm gagged, spitting blood onto the ground. Gil pressed his sweater into Malcolm’s stomach.

“Hose,” Malcolm indicated. 

Gil saw Malcolm’s shoulders rise with rapid breaths that he knew from past experience might lead to panic. He made his new priority one _get the shit off him_.

On the far wall, Gil found a coil of industrial hose, leaving Malcolm a moment to retrieve it. Gil squeezed the nozzle and hit the concrete with the water first to test its strength, then doused Malcolm, all of the effluent bleeding out to the concrete.

Malcolm rubbed his eyes, the crust breaking off in bits and pieces speckling his fingers. Took the hose from Gil, washing out his mouth on an endless loop and fighting with his eyes. Ran the hose over his body again, hints of brown and red staying behind. He still sat in the crimson pool, so it was the best he would be able to do for now.

“Where are we?” He handed the hose back to Gil and hugged the sweater to his wounds again.

“Meatpacking District.”

Malcolm squirmed, the knowledge of what he’d been covered in flooding him again. He put his fingers through his hair only for his shaking hand to come back covered in dripping red, making his eyes widen.

“Kid — “

The wail of an ambulance came nearer and police sirens echoed the cacophony. Malcolm pushed on the trough and stood, leaning on Gil for support. His sopping pants were only kept up by his belt, the fine fabric now dyed a deep burgundy.

“Can you walk?” Gil asked.

Malcolm tested his balance, taking a few awkward splashing steps. “Why does he always have to take my shoes?”

Gil gave him a look, wondering how the hell he could possibly be worrying about footwear at the moment. He wrapped an arm around him to guide him from the building. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left the warehouse behind, floor lacquered a gruesome new shade of red.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> this is in response to two lovely people who said they wanted a new drowning fic. <3 you both.


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